


Carefully Angled Mirrors

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exhibitionism, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Very Little Plot, Smut, Teasing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean goes out to get laid and Sam is tired of research.</p><p>Basically four chapters of smut :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sam Gets Caught

Dean goes out to get laid and Sam is tired of research. Television is rubbish. It’s hot in the motel room and the A/C might have worked when it was installed but that was a long time ago. Mercifully there’s a breeze and Sam sits propped up on pillows in his jockey shorts with the ratty net curtains dancing.

 

Dean would be well on his way to a blow job by now, or maybe he’s already balls deep in some slut in a back alley, or in the Impala. Sam imagines persuading Dean to stay in, getting on his knees and seeing to Dean himself. It’s a pleasant fantasy and he palms himself through his shorts.

 

Honestly, what does Dean have against wanking anyway? Why does he have to go and stud himself out every evening? Sam frees himself from his shorts and imagines how well he would have to suck his brother’s cock to persuade him to give up the women. In his fantasy Dean swears fidelity and lets Sam have his engorged libido all for himself, every evening and every day, whenever Sam wants him. He strokes himself firmly and imagines going down on Dean while he’s driving the Impala.

 

He pictures Dean’s face and subconsciously wet his lips. Sam could be all the slut Dean needs. He could make up for his lack of breasts, vagina and curves by giving Dean something to fight against. He imagines Dean fucking, ramming into some faceless slut from behind. It’s probably close to the truth right now, and a tried and tested fantasy for Sam. He really starts getting into his rhythm when he sees a shadow by the window. Shit. He grabs a pillow and covers himself. Dean is fumbling with the lock and coughing. Shit shit shit. Sam dashes for the bathroom, forgetting to leave the pillow on the bed.

 

****

 

The bar had been a dive, even by Dean’s low standards. There were a couple of loose women hanging around, as always, and one in particular had given him come-to-bed eyes. All Dean had been able to see when he looked at her was a range of particularly nasty STDs and she’d had nothing at all in common with Sam as far as he could tell. He had given it up as a bad job and driven back to the motel.

 

The window to their room is open and the net curtain flaps in and out of the gap. Dean freezes half way to the door. For a split second the curtain flips back to reveal Sam sitting on the bed closest to the door, _Dean’s bed_ , enjoying some alone time with his hand. Dean stays very still. The curtain ripples and teases him and then a gust of wind makes the net billow and there is Sam again, cock in hand, head back against the wall, eyes closed, stroking his cock.

 

Dean considers his options, his own cock swelling uncomfortably in his jeans. Sam might have seen him by now so he can’t risk backing off and letting him finish. Besides, if he plays this right Sam will be forced to finish off in the bathroom while Dean’s there: a rare treat and better than a thousand sluts in a thousand bars as far as jacking off material goes. Sam would be none the wiser, no damage done.

 

He makes for the door, adjusting himself and fixating on the image of the wet pink head of Sam’s cock straining peeking out of his fist. He pretends to fumble the lock for a while, even coughing a little to warn Sam that he’s back. When he gets inside there’s a warm empty spot where Sam had been sitting on his bed and one of his pillows is missing.

 

****

 

Sam jerks his cock furiously and silently over the sink. He doesn’t usually allow himself to do this when Dean’s in the room but he had been more than halfway there when Dean surprised him, and Dean’s proximity only serves to agitate Sam’s arousal. Dean is likely muzzy with drink anyway, perhaps drunk, because Dean never fumbles keys. Dean is Mr Smooth Stud. James Fucking Dean. Sam watches his own face as he comes silently in the mirror, runs the tap to wash away the mess, splashes his face, adjusts his shorts and flushes the toilet for good measure. Damn. How is he going to explain the pillow?

 

Dean doesn’t mention the pillow, which is odd. In fact something is definitely off because Dean is studiously not looking at Sam, sitting in the spot he vacated a moment before, Sam’s laptop in his lap. He isn’t even slightly drunk. Oh God. Dean had been the shadow at the window. He saw Sam jacking off. Sam’s spent cock twitches at the idea.

 

“Lost your touch with the ladies Dean? Pass me a beer.”

 

Dean keeps staring at the laptop. “Get it yourself, bitch.”

 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, they’re right next to you. Don’t be a jerk.”

 

Dean does this awkward maneuver where he rolls sideways, laptop held in place, and barely manages to snag two bottles off the floor with his fingertips. Suddenly it all makes sense to Sam. Dean is hiding his hard on, the hard on from _watching Sam jack off,_ under Sam’s laptop. He’s probably not even looking at anything.

 

Sam launches forwards, catching the beer that Dean chucks at him, and gets his head in front of the screen before Dean can slam the laptop shut. Dean was looking at the login screen. _Jackpot!_

 

“Change the password Sam?” Dean asks, cool as anything, but it’s too late because Sam’s on to him. This calls for more research, the kind of research Sam’s really going to enjoy.

 

“Nope, same as last time,” and Sam’s celebrating on the inside. “Assbutt101.”


	2. Dean Gets Caught

The case they’re on is looking more and more like a cursed object of some sort. Sam just needs to figure out what it is and Dean needs to burn it.

 

They stop by the last known victim’s trailer on the edge of town and his bat-shit-crazy mother offers them this sticky milky syrup to drink. Sam, being smart, pleads a fake lactose intolerance, where as Dean, slave to his stomach, accepts. Stupid.

 

The object they’re looking for is an African flute. The old lady says that it doesn’t make a sound when played but Sam thinks that something must hear it calling. Something that likes to crush and, as far as they can tell, ingest its victims whole.

 

Dean is so upset about the disgusting syrupy gunk stuck to his teeth that they have to spend twenty minutes in the dental section of a pharmacy. When Dean picks out an electric toothbrush (“I’m only using it once Sam,” he says scowling) Sam is delighted. Jess taught him all about electric toothbrushes and he spends the drive back to the motel formulating a plan. A trap for Dean. He can’t wait. 

 

****

 

Dean is reluctant to go out. There are only two bars to choose from in this back end of nowhere town and he’s tried both. Besides, all the signs point to a big fucking demon snake on the loose and Dean really hates snakes.

 

Then Sam starts parading round in his shorts again and all that beautiful flesh is simultaneously at arm’s length and utterly unattainable.  It’s strange behavior for Sam, despite the hot weather, but Dean brushes it off… until Sam reaches past him for the third time, brushing his back and torturing Dean with his proximity and his scent. It’s either go crazy or get out of there, so Dean hightails it.

 

He makes himself stay for a whole forty five minutes and two beers. Why anyone would choose to live here is beyond him. There’s music playing in their room when he gets back, which is unusual. He opens the door cautiously, mindful of yesterday’s performance. His bed is undisturbed but there’s a buzzing he can’t place coming from the bathroom and… _Oh Dear God in Heaven._

 

Dean can see Sam in the mirror, where the bathroom door is cracked open, light spilling out. Sam is standing in front of the sink, one hand wrapped tightly around the base of what looks to be a painfully throbbing erection. In his other hand Sam is holding Dean’s electric toothbrush. He’s teasing the underside of his cock with it and biting his bottom lip in concentration. It’s the most erotic thing Dean has ever seen and he can only stare, open mouthed as Sam comes, spurting long strings of spunk across the basin and the toothbrush.

 

Dean backs out of the door, closes it silently and legs it for the safety of his Baby.

 

****

 

Damn. Dean has run off. Sam’s timing had been perfect though and he congratulates himself on a part well played. His poor abused cock has been hard for twenty minutes while he brought himself again and again to the edge of orgasm. It was easy as pie to turn the toothbrush on when he heard the Impala parking up, and it had only taken half a minute of the delicious buzzing sensation to make him lose it, although Sam has to admit that feeling Dean’s eyes on him in the mirror (that he had carefully angled) had helped things along. A lot.

 

He had wanted to be caught. Damn Dean and his stealthy hunter instincts. He would just have to try again tomorrow.

 

****

 

Dean’s first order of business, once in the driver’s seat, is to cover his lap with a roadmap, free his own throbbing erection, grab a handful of tissues and chase the sweet release he so badly needs. It’s over embarrassingly quickly. He cleans up, tucks himself away and tries to think.

 

What the hell is Sammy up to? It feels like a trap. The setup was too good to be real: the mirror at just the right angle; the brighter light in the bathroom; the music to cover Dean’s entrance. The _timing_ , damnit. But Dean can’t be sure. He puts his hands over his face in desperation. Had Sam seen him yesterday? He thinks Sam might have figured him out, with the laptop. But he still can’t be sure. It’s not enough to go on and it’s certainly not enough to risk freaking Sam out over. For all he knows Sam just got curious with the toothbrush (everyone knows about electric toothbrushes) and the heavens smiled on Dean for a change.

 

He’s going to have to go back in. Sam might have seen the Impala in the lot. Dean feels more trepidation in going back to their motel room than he would have felt entering a den of werewolves but he needn’t have bothered because the lights are off and Sam _appears_ to be sleeping.


	3. Suits Are Hot

Agents Smith and Jones interview the local Sheriff in the morning. Agent Smith seems to be checking out Agent Jones’s ass at every opportunity, and Agent Jones seems to smirk at Agent Smith’s back whenever it’s turned. Sheriff Barnaby doesn’t even want to know. Bloody federal involvement is all he needs. These boys are always a law unto themselves.

 

****

  
It’s too hot for suits. Dean keeps loosening his tie and Sam keeps disapproving of him until he tightens it up again and it’s getting old. The local law enforcement is no help, which is fine by Dean because he just wants to get back to the room and shuck this ridiculous outfit.

 

Dean can appreciate a good suit however, when it’s on Sam. Sam in a suit is _hot_. Dean usually feels superior in his hunter getup but when Sam swaps his geekboy baggy clothes to dress up as a Fed, well, Dean thinks he might have a bit of a fetish thing going on. His libido is already overloaded with Sam’s recent performances and the suit thing is making Dean hot under the collar and extra irritable.

 

When they’re finally done at the station Sam has a stroke of genius and they head over to the Records Office to do a spot of genealogy. According to Sam, ownership of the instrument passes down blood to blood and they have the name of the thing: Baranabus’s flute. Unfortunately someone has beaten them to it and all they find is the remains of a small non-accidental fire.

 

Horny and defeated Dean drives them back to the motel, strips down to his shorts and collapses face down onto his bed. The bed that Sam was jacking off on. He groans into the pillow.

 

****

 

Sam thinks he will keep the suit on for a while and let Dean sweat it out. He makes coffee and plays with his tie and collar. He runs his hands down his shirt front while they recap the victims’ common ground, or lack thereof. He bends to rummage through his rucksack, making sure Dean has a fine view of the tight fabric over his ass, and it seems that Dean has finally had all he can take.

 

“Sam, take the suit _off_. You’re making me feel hot just watching you,” and Dean claps a hand over his eyes when he realises what he just said.

 

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam allows himself a grin, “I’m _hot_.” And he watches Dean regret ever opening his mouth while he does a suit striptease that _might_ be a striptease but _might_ only be Sam taking off the suit as instructed. He can see the frustration and confusion battling in Dean’s face. Poor Dean. All wound up.

 

Dean mutters something about needing a shower before they go anywhere else but Sam’s ready for him. “We need to get to the funeral home before they close.”

 

“You go.” Dean must really be suffering.

 

“What if it’s there?”

 

Dean looks torn for a moment but he opts for accompanying Sam into uncertain danger, as Sam knew he would. Dean’s not getting off on his own any time today. Sam has plans for later.

 

****

 

The funeral home was blessedly cool but otherwise a complete waste of effort. None of the victims’ crushed bones even sparked the EMF meter and they didn’t learn anything new.

 

Sam is on another of his kill-Dean-with-his-super-hot-body jaunts when they get back to the room, and when Dean shuts himself in the bathroom, thinking that he will steal five minutes to jack off, Sam talks to him non-stop through the door. He sits there miserably on the toilet lid and stares at the toothbrush.

 

He tells Sam that he’s going out, and this time Dean thinks he’s going to have to risk an ugly infection because he has got to get some distraction from Sam, and soon. It’s either that or take a gamble he’s not quite prepared to take with Sam’s affections. He has mountains of suspicions. To the best of his judgment his little brother appears to be the worst and craftiest cock tease in the world, sadistic and adept. The problem is that Dean can’t trust his judgment in this because it’s the thing he wants most in the world. 

 

Just before he closes the door Sam asks how long he’ll be gone. He’s all butter-wouldn’t-melt about it but Sam never asks how long he’ll be gone because it’s an unspoken rule. That’s when Dean knows he’s being lured into a trap. He doesn’t care. He’s not going anywhere other than the Impala for a few minutes before he can sneak back.

 

He gives Sam twenty minutes, enough time to get a coffee from the machine and eat a few candy bars, before going back to their room. He stands outside the door for a full two minutes but there’s nothing else for it. He opens the door.

 

Sam is on his bed again, legs obscenely wide, hips on both of Dean’s pillows, three fingers in his ass, moaning, red faced, oozing lube all over his hand and precome all over his stomach.

 

Dean is rock hard in record time. He doesn’t know whether to jump Sam or run. He hesitates and Sam moans, “ _Dean,”_ and Sam’s naked except for Dean’s leather jacket…

 

…and then Sam looks up at him and it’s a fucking gold leafed invitation on a platter.


	4. Great Big Snake

Dean slams the door and stalks Sam. His eyes are impossibly dark and he looks terrifying like this; absolutely deadly. “You little bitch,” his voice is dangerously quiet but too low and sexy for demon hunting. Sam’s sure he’s going to attack but Dean leans down and licks a long stripe through the dribbles of precome on Sam’s stomach instead.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Sam says with feeling. He grabs Dean and heaves him up, wrapping his legs around him and using Dean’s momentum to flip them over. Dean keeps them rolling them though, and Sam lands on the floor with an _oomph_. Dean tries to pin his arms and a wrestling match ensues. Sam’s bigger but Dean’s madder and while their father probably wouldn’t have been proud, given the circumstances, he would certainly have appreciated their skill.

 

Buttons fly from Dean’s shirt and they pause to battle the mutual enemy that is Dean’s clothing and Dean’s jacket. Sam starts the kiss, clamping his hands around Dean’s head but Dean grabs Sam’s face too and it’s fierce, with biting and jostling, until the heads of their cocks bump together and slide and suddenly Sam goes pliant, surrendering himself and opening up.

 

Dean takes advantage and flips Sam onto his front. Dean’s cock is pressing along the line of Sam’s crack and Sam grinds back, watching Dean’s face in the mirror he used so effectively yesterday. “Come on Dean, fuck me.”

 

Dean pulls him up so that Sam’s back is flush to Dean’s front. He reaches down with both hands, feeling for Sam’s hole that has already been stretched and lubed while Sam waited for him. He spreads his knees further apart to get underneath and eases himself into Sam’s hole, impossibly tight and hot despite the preparation. “Jesus fuck Sammy,” he hisses, “Gonna be the death of me.”

 

Sam falls forwards onto his hands and reaches for his cock, but _hell no_ this is all Dean’s now, so he knocks Sam’s hand away. Sam lowers his chest to the floor and arches his back, pushing back onto Dean and squirming his hips. “Such a _slut_ ,” Dean says with a kind of awe, starting to thrust into Sam who shoves his hips back towards Dean with every stroke. Dean could never have conceived of anything so debauched and so hot in all his wildest fantasies.

 

Sam’s moaning, one long low continuous sound that’s getting right under Dean’s skin and driving him nuts. He thrusts harder and Sam finds words. “ _You’re the slut… always fucking… always leaving… think of you… always fucking… me Dean… wanted you to… fuck me… so long… needed you… needed this… Dean… Dean… Dean…”_

Dean pulls out, turns Sam onto his back and drives back into him before he has a chance to complain. And yeah, this is better because now he can watch Sam’s face as he fucks him into the carpet. Sam’s lips are all pretty and swollen, his cheeks are stained pink and he’s watching Dean watch him, eyes half lidded and challenging. His feet are up by Dean’s shoulders and he’s spreading himself as far apart as he can, splitting himself in two for Dean, and Dean’s trying to fuck right through him. The pace gets frantic and Sam reaches for his cock again. Dean shoves his hand away and takes it himself. He’s not going to last much longer anyway and Sam is making a continuous noise again, urgent now. He milks Sam’s cock once, twice, three times and that’s all it takes for Sam to start clenching around his cock. Dean comes buried in the wonderful heat of his brother’s body while Sam makes a mess all over their stomachs and Dean’s hand, chanting Dean’s name like it can save him.

 

“Well fuck Sammy.” Dean extracts himself from the mess that is his well fucked, smug, grinning and hot-as-fuck younger brother.

 

“Yeah,” says Sam and he looks like the cat who got the cream and the canary, and possibly the goldfish too.

 

Dean gets them cleaned up and into his bed as quickly as he can because he has wanted to lie in Sam’s arms almost as badly as he has wanted the sex ever since Sam went and got all huge on him. He doesn’t want to give Sam a chance to call him on it, so he tries to keep it casual, but he’s not wasting time either and he can’t contain a happy sigh when he rests his head on Sam’s chest and those colossal arms finally close around him.

 

****

 

Dean’s a cuddler, who knew? Sam considers teasing him about it. It’s adorable really, the way he is so desperate to get Sam in his bed whilst trying to make it normal, like they sleep like this every night, wrapped in each other. He presses a kiss into Dean’s hair and squeezes him gently. They _are_ going to be sleeping this way every night, and doing a lot more fucking too. Sam’s going to make sure of it.  

 

Sam remembers that the door is unlocked. Dean is sleeping and he lets him drool for a while on his shoulder before carefully extracting himself, throwing on a shirt and his jeans and slipping out to the Impala to retrieve his laptop. There’s still a giant demon snake at large and somebody’s got to take care of it. He stops at the vending machine wondering which candy bars Dean will appreciate the most and gets himself a Coke.

 

Sam intends to slip back into the room so as not to wake Dean but something’s wrong because there’s the sound of choking and struggling. Sam bursts into the room and find’s Dean on the bed where he left him but now there is an enormous green snake wrapped around his brother’s shoulders where Sam’s arms had been only moments before. Dean’s eyes are bugging out of his head and he has the look of a man who has woken to one of his worst nightmares. “Saaam,” he manages to wheeze, and Sam almost goes to him in panic, but that would be no use. He has to find the flute. If the snake’s here then the flute must be close by. Someone has planted it in their room.

 

It’s under Sam’s mattress. Dean is turning purple, muscles bulging as he tries to fight the monster off. Sam closes his eyes and tries to remember the tune he found to reverse the summoning. No sound comes out of the instrument but it works and Dean’s free, the creature banished.

 

He holds Dean to him while the adrenalin seeps away, until Dean can speak in a steady voice. “Fucking snakes,” he says. “Where’s it gone Sammy? What was that?”

 

“I found a reversal tune when I was reading about it yesterday, the summoning tune backwards really.”

 

“Since when do you play the flute?” Dean’s looking impressed.

 

“It’s more of a silent recorder really,” Sam explains, “Quite interesting actually because the spell can be played at any pitch, it’s the tonal spacing that…”

 

“Yeah, yeah, c’mere genius,” Dean kisses him to shut him up and they keep on kissing because it just gets better and better. When they finally come up for air Sam is ready to go another round and he reckons Dean is too, if the hardness pushing against his thigh is anything to go by.

 

“So it’s gone,” Dean clarifies, glancing at the flute. Sam rolls his eyes.

 

“Well sort of. I sent it back to whoever summoned it in the first place.”

 

“You… Jesus Sammy! We have to stop it!”

“No way! Whoever it’s gone after was trying to kill you. _Fuck them_ ,” and he kisses Dean to make him forget about it. Dean resists for a token amount of time and then things heat up again to Sam’s satisfaction, the snake forgotten.

 

Sam stands up to get rid of his clothes again and Dean flutters his eyelids at him and says, “My hero,” in a breathy voice. Sam laughs and swoops back down but Dean keeps him at arm’s length, stroking his thumb along Sam’s cheek. Sam thinks he’s only half joking when he says, “Whatever can I do to thank you?”

 

“Well, now you mention it I’ve been waiting to go down on you for _ages_ but in my fantasy you’re usually driving when we do that…” Dean’s pupils dilate and he wets his lips which have fallen open, “And after all those years of watching you clean guns and play with your car I’ve got a real thing for your hands, so if we could just find the lube…” Sam pretends to scan the room and Dean tries to pull them together but Sam resists, smirking. “Think I’d like you to tie my hands Dean, we have the ties from the Fed suits, I _know_ you like my suit. Think that could work?”

 

“Christ Sam.” Dean reaches for Sam’s cock but Sam evades him.

 

“Or you could give me a piece of that macho ass Dean,” Sam says, “You know I’m going to get in there sometime, make you take it for me eventually...”

 

There are no winners in the fight that ensues but there are no losers either.

 

****

 

They hear about Sheriff Barnaby’s grisly demise over the police scanner in the morning and they burn the flute in a wooded area behind the motel. It goes up quickly, like it’s made of autumn leaves and magic instead of wood. Maybe it is.

 

There’s a pack of werewolves in Indiana. It’s going to be a long drive but Dean is really really looking forward to it.


End file.
